Pride Goeth
by Unadulterated
Summary: Part One of Pride and Parenthood. Rhodey doesn't know who thought it was a good idea to give a sixteen-year-old Tony Stark a baby and say "good luck," but obviously they did not think this through. Teen dad!Tony.


**A/N: I swear this was an accident.**

**Basically, this is me practicing Rhodey's POV and giving in to the sudden urge to write teen!dad!Tony, which means it turned into a weird parody of a nanny/single parent au. Also now it's a series, because I'm writing another one. Plot bunnies, right?**

**This is technically pre-slash, but if you really don't like Rhodey/Tony for whatever reason, then you'll be happy to know that this first installment is completely platonic. It's the later ones that will develop the relationship.**

**Also, _Rhodey is not a character you can choose in the Avengers section on this website_. With the way the cross-overs are archived, this means that I can't select him and still put this in the proper Avengers section. this pisses me off greatly. Anyone know a way to complain (politely, I promise I can be polite about it) to someone who can actually change it?**

—§§§—

"Hi," the kid says, sliding into the chair across from James. He looks too young for sitting in the college cafeteria—maybe fifteen—but the frazzled, wide-eyed look of someone kept awake solely by coffee and the force of will fits right in. James would be _very _surprised to learn that the kid has slept more than four hours in the past two days: his hair is a mess and his fingers are already tapping obsessively on the table. "I have a proposition for you."

James stares at him. "Who are you?"

The kid grimaces. "I'm Tony Stark."

He says it with more resignation than snotty privilege, which is probably the only reason that James doesn't stand up and walk away on principle.

"Right," James says, pausing just long enough that Stark begins to vibrate. "Right. What's this proposition?" It better be less inappropriate than that word choice makes it sound.

"Okay," Stark begins, the word a huge sigh, "look. I'm in a bit of a predicament. More correctly, a little three-month-old baby is in a bit of a predicament. So I set up an algorithm with the student information and apparently James Rupert Rhodes has got something like thirteen nieces and nephews, a couple younger cousins, a good degree, good grades, and a good record in ROTC, so I figure _what the hell_, you'll be a lot better than that hired nanny who ran off with the fucking candlesticks, I should have _known_, I mean, it's not like I furnished the place but _golden candlesticks, _that's just asking for trouble."

Stark pauses for a breath he sorely needs, and James takes the opportunity.

"I"m pretty sure that's a serious violation of privacy," he says, because he does have seven nieces and six nephews and cousins he doesn't bother to count, but he doesn't want _Stark _knowing that.

Stark scoffs and makes an awkward, half-dismissing gesture with his hand. "Well, I mean, kind of. Yes. Yes it was. But I really need help from someone who's qualified, so I gotta know, are you capable of taking care of a three-month-old?"

James stares at him for long enough that Stark's shoulders coil up into cords of tension and he starts vibrating again. His fingers are tapping, possibly in morse code, but James is a little to devoted to deciphering what the _hell _Stark is talking about to worry about decoding morse. "This hypothetical three-month-old. Is it yours?"

"Don't tell anyone," Stark says quickly. "But. Um. The mom's out, and I—" He closes his eyes and takes a huge breath. When he lets it out again, he manages to speak marginally slower. "Yes. Don't tell, it'll be a very public shit storm and I don't even know what I'm doing right now. Look, I'll pay you, I just—need someone who can make sure I'm not going to accidentally cause the death of an infant."

Maybe James should stop staring, but he's not quite sure he _can_. Stark's young—sixteen, not fifteen, if James recalls correctly from campus rumor—and he looks so _scared_.

James has a bit of a weakness for lost sheep. Blame the four kids of an alcoholic uncle.

"You don't have anyone else, do you," James says slowly.

The fingers still. "No," Stark says, voice small and suddenly vulnerable. "I don't."

James rubs his face, heart sinking in resignation. He's going to end up doing this, isn't he. Damn it. He peers at Stark through the fingers of one hand. "Where is the baby now?"

Stark blinks. Starts to look just vaguely, cautiously hopeful. "Taking a nap, finally."

James drops his hand. "Alone?"

At least Stark has the grace to look shamefaced, but the indignant hand gestures really aren't helping his case. "No one else. We literally just went over this."

James sighs. Looks at his watch; he's got maybe two hours before he _has _to leave for class again. "Get up and let's go."

Stark's face brightens, he opens his mouth—

"Don't thank me yet," James snaps at him.

—§§§—

"That's… not exactly a crib," James says slowly, dubiously. It's the only thing he can think to say. The least cutting thing, because it's immediately apparent that Stark is utterly adrift and _completely _hopeless at this.

The baby, naked except for a disposable diaper inexpertly attached to her hips, blinks up at him from the bottom of a cardboard box that appears to have held some kind of hardware at some point. The bottom and sides are at least lined with soft blankets, and the box is sturdy enough that the baby isn't likely to push it over or collapse one of the sides. Her large brown eyes widen at him and her tiny lips open, one little fist going to her mouth.

It's adorable right up until she screws up her face and begins to wail.

"What do I do?!" Stark demands, voice high and tense. Now that they're inside, out of public view, exhaustion and panic are leaking from every angle and curve of his expression and posture. "I fed her, there's bottles in the kitchen, but she won't stop _crying_. I think she only fell asleep because she was too tired to keep going."

James hums, looks down at the bawling baby. Poor thing. He leans over the box and scoopers her up. She keeps right on screaming her lungs out, but she clings to him like her short little life depends on it. James tries gently shushing her, already aware it won't work, and takes the time to _listen_.

That… isn't the cry of a hungry baby. "Did she bump herself on anything?" James wants to know. "Or—get a bruise that might be agitated?"

Stark blinks at him. It's weirdly reminiscent of his daughter's expression, but at least he's probably not going to start crying. Not this loudly, anyway. "Um. I don't think so? Oh God, is she hurt, is that why she's crying? I don't—fuck, I have no idea what I'm doing—"

"Calm down," James orders. "She's crying because she's in pain. For babies, that could even mean moderate discomfort. But she's not used to it, so she's freaking out. You just need to not. Okay, so you don't know if she's bumped anything. Does she have a diaper rash?"

Stark shakes his head quickly. "Not as of two and a half hours ago."

"Okay, okay." Jams frowns, starts bounding the baby absently, trying to think. The crying takes on a wavering pitch as she goes up and down, offset more as James pats her back. This poor, poor little thing. He feels a little sorry for Stark, too. Really, they're kind of two clueless kids, and they probably need all the help James can give them, which is its own kind of terrifying thought.

The baby burps. She looks as surprised as James does, but the respite is only a few seconds long before she's crying again.

"You fed her, right? With a bottle?"

Stark makes an indignant sound. "Yes! That's what you do, you feed babies with bottles, that's what all the movies tell me—"

"Did you burp her afterward?"

Stark tips his head to the right. "Did I _what_?"

_Do not mock him do not sight do not be an asshole—_James sighs on reflex and Stark's face colors. "You're new at this," James says apologetically. "It's okay. But you need to know that, when you feed babies, they get air bubbles in their stomach and can't get them out on their own, so you have to help them. Here, I'll show you."

"O-o-okay," Stark says uncertainly, as James ignores his confusion and boosts the baby over to Stark's arms. He's really short, but the baby's really small. James is starting to feel like a giant in this company. "You know, I'm realizing that nanny was very, profoundly unhelpful," Stark says, the tone of his voice suggesting that he's mostly rambling to keep himself from freaking out. "I didn't know this shit. And then she goes and _runs off_."

"With golden candlesticks," James says flatly, because he thinks he remembers that from Stark's first monologue, but _what_?

"Yup."

"…You have _golden candlesticks_?"

"Well, not _anymore_," Stark points out.

James shakes his head and leans over a little, toward the baby. "Whatever. I'm going to guess you don't have a burp cloth, so I hope you don't like this shirt."

"Excuse me?" Stark squeaks, voice about half an octave higher than normal. James ignores him.

"Hold her like this. There. Her face should be just over your shoulder. Pat her back—harder than that, just a little, perfect. I promise it won't hurt her. Go on."

Stark's still practically sweating panic, but he's at least following directions decently well. He looks about five words from a meltdown, thought and the baby screaming in his ear can't be helping, so James mimes bouncing her instead of trying to use words. Stark gets it and mimics the movement. The baby burps twice more in the span of a few minutes before finally snuffling against her father's shoulder and whimpering, exhausted and unhappy but finally, mercifully silent.

"Did it work?" Stark asks, hushed, like he thinks she's going to start crying again at the sound of his voice.

"Yeah," James says, patting Stark's other shoulder gently—the one the baby's cuddled into has spit-up down the back—and finds himself speaking him quietly as well. "Okay, you look like you might fall over with a stiff breeze. C'mere, sit yourself down."

Stark practically melts into the couch fusion when he sits own. He's still holding the baby stiffly, but that's acceptable, seeing as he's not trying to hand her off—

James sees he spoke to soon when Stark tries to give her back. "Uh-uh, your kid."

"But you know what to do," Stark hisses at him. "I'm—I'm going to drop her or something—"

James rolls his eyes. Rude, yes, but _God_, he can see why the kid was so desperate for someone with experience. Algorithms? Apparently nobody's business. Babies? Call the containment team, _sheesh_.

"You're sitting down. You would literally have have to drop her _on purpose_."

"I wouldn't!" Stark straightens indignantly and gives James a frazzled, horrified look.

James can't even rolls his eyes at that. He just gives Stark a flat look. "Are you serious?"

Stark deflates, lowers his head and rests it against the little girl's body with the ghost of a hysterical giggle. "I've had, like, four hours of sleep in the past week." He turns his head at the wispy, dark hair on the baby's head. "Is she still awake? Awake and actually not screaming? That's a new one." Another slightly hysterical giggle.

James has no idea who lets Stark close enough to a computer for that algorithm, but thinks that maybe they should have thought that through. "Yeah, see, she was just uncomfortable. You'll learn to recognize what she wants. Her crying will sound different."

Stark sways a little, side to side, some of the tension going from his shoulders. The baby hums at the movement. "Okay," he breathes. "Okay. You are a wain, you know. An absolute saint, God, I thought—I don't even know. You're—" Stark turns his head to squint at him. "James. You're James Rhodes, right? I've tried talking to, like, fifteen people. All of them thought I was fucking with 'em."

"I'm James," he confirms simply, because he doesn't know how to respond to that. Fifteen people? Poor kid. He really must have been desperate.

Stark sighs and nods. His eyelids droop. "James. James, Jim, Jimmy—"

"_Just _James," he clarifies.

"Just James. James is way to boring for a saint, you know. You can't be a James, you're too saintly."

James looks at him. Stark's head is tipping forward a little, executing the bobbing head of someone falling asleep while sitting up and trying not to. "I'm at least eighty percent sure that there are more than five saints called James."

"Nuh-uh," Stark says, his head lifting again. "Not gonna work. I've got t-t-t-t-to—" Stark yawns enormously. "…think of a nickname for you. Tomorrow. I'll pay you," he adds abstractly, and his head settles onto James' shoulder.

Stark's out like a light before James can tell him that he has class in what's probably seventy-five minutes.

Well, if Stark hasn't taken Elementary Linear Algebra, James will eat his ROTC uniform. He can probably get the lesson from Stark as part of the payment.

For now, he'll just let these exhausted kids sleep.

—§§§—

Stark probably could have slept for half a day, but the baby wakes them both up about three hours later. For the record, James didn't intend to fall asleep. When Stark jerks awake, James has to order him to _sit back down _and goes to make some formula himself in the kitchen. It doesn't escape his notice that there's basically nothing in the room except baby formula. Stark probably survives on takeout and fancy caterers.

Once the baby eats and burps, Stark seems to settle more. The worst of the crazy ooh in his eyes fades, replaced by a terrified sort of wonder as he constantly glances at the baby out of the corner of his eye, like he thinks she might just be a figment of his imagination.

Or maybe he's worried he's just gone deaf. After a few days with that wailing, James might be worried too. She's sure got a pair of lungs on her.

"Okay," James says. "First of all, I missed a class, but I think it's one you've taken, so if you could help me out with that, it'd be great."

"Sure," Stark says immediately. "Anything for Saint Jimmy."

"James."

"Yeah, I don't think Jimmy works either."

James rolls his eyes and Stark actually grins at him. "So we're on a first name basis, now?" James asks, amused despite himself.

"Well, nickname basis, I would hope, but if you're gonna be like that then you can call me Tony." Tony grins, extends his hand, and James shakes it. He thinks that's usually supposed to come _before _watching a baby spit up on someone, but, well, Tony doesn't seem like the kind of person who's particularly concerned with doing things in order.

Like, for example, _marriage before children._

Whatever. Not James' business. "I think I'm going to stick with Tony," he says. "What about the little one?"

"Hm?" Tony says, vaguely confused."

"What's her name?"

"Ah," Tony says. Blinks. "Um." The blank look on his face makes James' stomach sink.

"She _does _have one, doesn't she?"

Tony shrugs tentatively, and his shoulders stay up there, hovering around his ears. "Her mom so kindly neglected to mention it when she knocked on my door, screamed at me, and shoved a three-month-old baby at me. I've got her birthday and that's about it. I'm thinking, though, maybe Peggy?" Tony leans over to peer into the cardboard box, and James has really got to make sure she gets a crib _right after her father gives her a _**_name_****. **"Does she look like a Peggy to you?"

James buries his head in his hands.

—§§§—

It's almost nine o'clock at night by the time James has wracked his brain and written a list of everything he can think of that Peggy is going to need in the short term. The crib, for one. More formula, a pacifier, more diapers, a rocking chair, baby wipes, toys, burp cloths. And clothes—apparently Tony has three onesies for her, non of which are actually clean at the moment, so teaching a spoilt rich kid how to do laundry is also probably on the list.

"Can't I just hire you to do that?" Tony suggests hopefully, when James brings it up. The mere mention of housework seems to terrify him as much as the baby does.

Rich white boys, right?

James crosses his arms. "You cannot hire me to do it, but you can pay me to teach you if it makes you feel any better. You have to know this stuff. You've got a kid."

"Why can't I just hire someone else, then? My parents did that!"

James squeezes his eyes shut and punches the bridge of his nose. He makes himself count to ten before he speaks. "Okay. This is going to sound bad, and I mean this in the best possible way, but—"

"No," Tony says quickly. "I—wow. Yeah, never mind, that's a terrible idea." He sounds almost amazed, and James hopes it's at the pure _idiocy _of hiring someone to raise a child rather than the fact someone just called him out on it. It almost makes sense, now, the way Tony's so famous for acting out.

"Okay, look, I'm tired, I still have homework, and I'm going back to my place." James stands and pretends he doesn't notice Tony stiffening like someone just poured ice-cold water on him. "I made this list for you, it should be most of everything you'll need."

"Are you coming back?" Tony asks, alarmed. "I mean, I'll pay you. You can basically name the number, seriously, I just have _no fucking clue _what I'm doing here and—"

"I'll come back," James interrupts loudly, before Tony can get himself worked into a frenzy. Peggy's waking is heralded by a mewling wail of confusion, a pause, and then silence as she realizes that she doesn't actually have a reason to cry anymore.

"Look," he says. "You're going to find people in the world that you can't pay off. There's a lot of things you literally could not pay me enough to do. But helping someone figure out how they're supposed to look after a kid when they're as confused and freaked out as you are is something I'd do for free."

Tony takes a moment to process that. "So you don't want my money?"

"Hell yeah I do," James grins. "I'm not saying no to that. I just want you to know that your money is not the reason I'm here."

"It's 'cause I'm cute, isn't it," Tony winks at him.

James sighs and rolls his eyes. Teach him to try to explain this to a Stark. "That's how you got into this mess, genius. 'Sides, Peggy's much cuter than you are."

Tony actually laughs. Good, the kid needs it. He leans over the box. "Hear that, kiddo? You're cuter than I am. Be proud." Tony tilts his head and squints at her. "You know, I actually don't think she looks much like a Peggy. What's another girl's name? Tiffany? How do you feel about Tiffany, munchkin?"

Call him crazy, but James has a hunch that currently-nameless-baby isn't going to answer.

"I'll see you tomorrow," he sighs.

—§§§—

James makes a call to his older sister—mother of two sons and four girls—and adds to his list a baby sling, baby butt cream, baby powder, and baby versions of bathing necessities like shampoo, conditioner, soap, and a towel. When she asks who it's for, he says, annoyed as he can manage, "Clueless new dad. The mom walked out. He's one of the students here."

Alison clucks her tongue and James can almost see her shaking her head. "Wish him luck from me, hear?"

"I will," James assures her.

He finds Tony walking bare-chested around the living room with an alarmingly animated air. James hopes this is the manic phase and not what he's usually like when he's actually getting any amount of sleep. He spins around when James enters and gestures wildly with the shirt in his hands.

"She threw up on it! Baby biohazard, everyone, I mean, really, Courtney?"

The baby—Courtney?—makes a plaintive sound from where she's flailing around on the ground on her stomach.

"Still no?" Tony says sadly. "Damn, that's all the good Cs. Dante?"

The baby whines again.

Tony sighs, gives James a shrug: _what can you do_? Then he gives the baby another considering look. "You're going to tell me to pick her up, aren't you."

James considers. "I'll ask my sister, but I think this is good. Babies have to learn how to crawl sometime. Even when they don't have names."

Tony gives him an irritated look. "I'm trying. This is me, trying. But Denice—" The baby wails, and Tony sighs. "_Dolores _here isn't cooperating." Tony tips his head to the side, obviously waiting impatiently, but the baby doesn't protest. "You know what," he says, I'm actually gonna go ahead and veto that one myself. Dolores is an awful, horrible name, and Dorothy makes you sound like you're fated to live in Kansas and I wouldn't wish that on anyone."

"Have you ever been to Kansas?" James asks. He's slowly smirking, and any attempts to stop are fruitless. This kid's actually pretty funny when he's running his mouth, when little-nameless-baby isn't kicking up a ruckus.

"Nope," Tony says cheerfully, popping the 'p.' "Don't plan to, either. Anyway, do you have class today?"

"At three," James says, finally stepping inside and slinging his backpack off his shoulder and onto the floor. "And I'm actually going today, fair warning."

"Right. I've got classes at one and five thirty. Well, one at four, too, but I can stand to miss that one again since I'm not sure you'll be back from yours." Tony gives him an uncertain look. "Um. Think you could take her for at least those first two I mentioned? You know, hang out here, order in food if you want, I—I don't know. I've been missing classes for a week and I actually do want to graduate, so. I kind of have to go often enough to get the assignments."

James folds his arms. "You want me to be your babysitter?"

Tony gives him a smile that shows he isn't holding out a huge amount of hope. "Please tell me this isn't one of those things you won't do for any amount of money."

"It isn't." James takes the list out of his pocket, makes his way over to sit on the couch, and beckons Tony over. "Here, I updated the list a little."

Tony steps closer, but stops to pick up the baby. When she's in his arms, he givers her a searching look and announces, "I literally cannot think of one good E name."

"Erin," James supplies.

"Erin!" Tony echoes. His face brightens and he gives the baby an expectant look. "Yeah? How 'bout that?"

The baby pushes her lips out at him in a grumpy parody of a kissy face.

"Fine, fine, we'll go for Fs. Frannie, Frankie, Francis, nope. I change my mind. No Fs, you are not allowed to have a name beginning in F."

"Tony," James says patiently. "List."

"Yeah, yeah," Tony says absently, walking over slowly and thumping onto the couch next to James. "G. Genevieve. Genevieve is is pretty, isn't it? Girls like pretty."

James holds the list in front o his nose. Tony crosses his eyes to try and focus on it, then gives up and moves his head back to read.

"Butt cream?" he says dubiously.

"If she gets diaper rash. Remember how she cried when she was uncomfortable?"

"Butt cream, got it," Tony says quickly, shuddering. "Alright. Are—are you going to run and get this or something?"

James snorts, before he realizes Tony isn't joking. "Uh, no. Even if you're willing to give me your card, I am not going to be the black kid who's buying two hundred dollars worth of stuff with a card that doesn't match the name on my ID."

"I spend more than that all the time, the credit card company won't care," Tony says. He looks—puzzled.

Tony does, unfortunately, seem to be serious. _White boys_, James thinks uncharitably. "Yeah, no. I'm more worried about the _store_. You're going shopping. Here's the list. Worst comes to worst, ask a lady who works there, preferably older, and she'll be able to help you out, alright?"

"Okay," Tony says dubiously. "And—I mean, of course you'll take care of this little, um, seriously, do you like Genevieve, kiddo? I refuse Gertrude on principle. G—G—" Tony holds her in front of him and her head falls forward onto his chest. "No Gs? I suppose I can try to work with that. Harriet's an awful name too, I'm warning you."

God, this kid is a scatterbrained idiot, but at least he's an endearing one. "Go take a shower," James sighs.

Tony sticks his lower lip out in an offended pout. "'Scuse me, what are you implying?"

"Have you showered since last night?" James says, long-suffering and already bored with it. Tony makes a few suspicious noises, eyes glancing shiftily to the side. "That's what I thought. Go take a shower, I'll hold wahtever-her-name-is."

"Hillary," Tony says. "Or—Hilton."

"No," James says.

"Huh-huh-Hayyyley? Hayley. Or Harley."

"That's a motorcycle."

"Harmony?"

"_Shower_," James insists.

"That's a horrible name," Tony sniffs, but he tilts his daughter into James' arms before James has the chance to whack him like he deserves. At least he actually gets up and walks out of the room, presumably to the shower.

James really could have gone without Tony barreling into the room seven minutes later in nothing but a towel, though. He covers the baby's eyes by reflex, but it's too late for his own.

"Jamie!" Tony announces. "I can call her Jamie, like you, Mr… Saint person. There."

James likes to think he's got a really good pokerface. There are times, though, when he _knows_ he doesn't. Like right now, for example, when he's about two seconds from _something_, though whether that 'something' be laughing, crying, or banging his head repeatedly against a nearby wall is anyone's guess. If this is what the majority of rich people are like, James would be perfectly happy to spend his entire life on his side of town.

"We have not known each other _nearly _long enough for you to be naming your child after me," James says fervently.

—§§§—

There's a kind of fire shining in Tony's eyes when he gets back from the store, and James doesn't like it.

Well, mostly he doesn't like the fact that Tony's only carrying two bags from the store. "Where's the rest of it?" he asks warily.

"Out in the car," Tony says carelessly, either not noticing the suspicion or expecting it. James doesn't know which option says worse things about Tony. "But good new, I got it!" He dumps the bags on the floor and flings his arms out. "Lewis! Doesn't she seem like a Lewis to you? That chubby little face?" Tony leans in just this side of too far into James' personal space and pokes a cheek on that 'chubby little face.' Then he looks up at James and nods wisely. "Definitely a Lewis."

"It's pronounced Lois," James says. Frankly, he doesn't see it, but whatever floats Tony's cracked and skewed boat.

"No no no, not Lois, not Lois Lane. No baby of mine is going to be waiting for Superman to save her. _Lewis_. L-E-W-I-S. She's a Lewis."

James stares at him. "That's a boy's name."

Tony frowns. "Don't impose gender rolls on _my _child."

James rolls his eyes and finds himself with his gaze stuck on the ceiling. Well, he supposes Tony's antics really necessitate him praying to _something_, so it only makes sense. "Whatever you say, Tony."

Tony frowns. "No? She…" He waves a hand in the baby's general direction. "I don't know what you're talking about, she is _totally _a Lewis. Here, gimme." He makes grabby hands and James sighs as he hands over the baby. "You're a Lewis, aren't you?" Tony asks her.

She buzzes her lips at him happily.

"See? That's a yes. That is absolutely a yes, she is a Lewis, congratulations, kiddo. Saint Jamesy, what's your problem?"

James is _really _starting to doubt that Tony has a single good naming bone in his body. "First of all, _'Jamesy' _is an abomination and demand it cease and desist immediately. Second of all…" He thinks for a moment. "Actually, it's probably better if I don't say it aloud."

Tony pouts at him, then looks to the baby. She mimics the expression and buzzes her lips insistently.

"Middle name," Tony decides. "Your middle name will be Lewis."

When he realizes that this means the naming game isn't over, yet, James _almost _regrets speaking up.

—§§§—

"For the love of all that is holy, _do not name your child Xanthe, _imagine how many times she'll have to spell it out. Hell, I'm vetoing the Xs _right now._"

—§§§—

Tony slumps onto the couch and whines like a dying animal. It's a small step up from him pacing fanatically around the room. "I got nothing," he says. "She's going to be Baby Lewis Stark forever."

James looks down at Baby Lewis, who has, despite her tiny size, managed to sprawl over both of their laps at the same time.

"It'll come to you," James assures him.

—§§§—

James is glad to finally be able to report to Alison that her suggestions were useful. Then he asks her, "How did you choose your kids' names?"

She pauses. "This a rhetorical question, or is this child you know _actually _nameless?"

"Her middle name is Lewis," James says drily. "Her first name has not yet been found in the alphabet."

Alison sighs heavily over the phone. "I don't got an answer for you. Sometimes names don't fit till they grow into 'em. What's on her birth certificate?"

It's James' turn to sigh. "I don't think he knows. Even if he did, I don't think he'd accept it. The mom abandoned her."

"Poor thing," Alison says, and James doesn't know if she's talking about the father or the daughter. Maybe both. James heartily agrees with the sentiment. "Need anything else? He has a doctor for her, doesn't he?"

James thinks about it. "Probably not," he says reluctantly. "He's a little…" Clueless. Especially since he's most likely never had to do much of anything for himself except that which pertains to the mysteries of his genius. "Yeah, almost definitely not. I'll talk to him about it. Thanks, Ally."

"Any time, Jimmy."

"James," he insists loudly, _God, _what has gotten into everyone, and she laughs at him before he hangs up.

—§§§—

"There you are," Tony says, when James walks into the door. "Hey, Baby Lewis, you—what is that. No. What are you doing." He leans over and pries what looks like a drill bit from her hand. "That is not for eating."

James sets his backpack by the wall and grins despite himself. "What is that even doing in here?"

"I cleaned," Tony says defensively. "Kind of. I kind of cleaned, and I got all the screw drivers, it's just, these are smaller." He sets it on a table, far out of Baby Lewis's reach. She makes a grumpy sound that's the beginning of a wail, vastly at odds with the bright yellow onesie she's wearing with a smiley face on the front.

"She's eaten?" James checks.

"Yes," Tony says, a little irritable. "At, like, three in the morning. And again at six thirty. I don't wake up at six thirty unless I don't go to _sleep_."

James raises an eyebrow. "Uh-huh. And have _you _eaten?"

Tony blinks. "Um."

James massages his forehead. "Last time I checked, there was no food in the kitchen for anyone but Baby Lewis. I have the sneaking suspicion that hasn't changed. Have you eaten at _all _recently?"

There's a look, James is realizing, that Tony makes when he doesn't want to say no, but to do anything else would be a lie.

He sighs. "I'm getting you some actual food. See you in half an hour. Any allergies I should know about?"

"Value brands," Tony says flatly.

James rolls his eyes and crouches down to shuffle through his backpack for his wallet. It's hiding at the bottom of the biggest pouch. "Okay, you got a car?"

"Oh my God, you're serious. Here, keys, it's out—you've seen it. I'm paying you back for this."

"Yeah," James informs him, "you definitely are."

It's a solid hour before James can really start to cook. He wasn't sure of seasonings and he wasn't sure of pots and pans. He assumed the worst of the first and the best of the second. He was right to do so—whatever hopeful soul that stocked this place obviously did not have the imagination to believe that Tony would have the good sense and cooking skills to use seasonings.

"Is that… chicken?" Tony wonders, poking his head into the kitchen.

"Yup," James says. "Behold the meals of the masses."

"I eat chicken."

"What, flame-broiled in bourbon?"

"Usually wine." Tony's grinning when James looks over at him, so he can't be a hundred percent sure Tony isn't joking.

James shakes his head. "Whatever. I'm almost done, get two plates?"

Tony nods and then proceeds to look around searchingly.

"The high cupboard next to the sink," James sighs. This is embarrassing. He's been here, what, three days? As opposed to this crazy soul who _lives _here? "Silverware's in the drawer below it."

"Ah," Tony says. "You may have noticed, but I haven't cooked for myself once in my life. Well, maybe once. There were cupcakes. I'm not a hundred percent sure they were actually edible, though… I mean, I was about five and would eat almost anything, but I vaguely remember my mother spitting it into the trashcan. Jarvis was much more polite about it."

James hums to assure Tony he's listening, but he's not sure what he's supposed to say. He's almost—surprised that Tony has such a simple childhood memory. About the fact that his mother features in it. James feels a little guilty for the assumption, but Tony had flat-out said they'd hired someone to raise him. Could that have been Jarvis?

No matter. It's really none of his business. "Where's Baby Lewis?" James asks, because that _is _his business—literally. Getting paid to make sure the baby does starve or cry herself to death.

Tony blinks. "Right." He disappears into the other room while James moves the plates to the table. "What—why—is that a dust bunny? That's disgusting. You're a disgusting creature, how are you so adorable. WHoe cleans in here? Someone does. Who do I pay to clean in here?"

Tony marches into the kitchen with Baby Lewis held triumphantly in his hands. "Baby acquired. Ooh, food. Potatoes?"

"Yeah. Sit down."

Tony does as he's told and sits, wraps one arm around Baby Lewis in his lap, and proceeds to inhale his food like a particularly determined vacuum cleaner. When _was _the last time he's eaten, anyway? This kid obviously needs about as much looking after as his daughter.

To be clear, someone else should be doing the looking-after. That isn't James' job. He has no intention of actually looking after them both past, like, this next week. Really.

James switches his train of thought as the part of his brain that feels an awful lot like his mother raises a metaphorical eyebrow at him. He's pretty sure his subconscious isn't supposed to be able to do that. "So, does Baby Lewis have a doctor?" James asks.

The food on his plate is already gone, and the look Tony gives James suggests it might all come back up—he looks _sick _with panic. "Is she sick? Hurt? Got some kind of baby plague? Fuck, I'm so bad at this—"

"Checkup," James says, half out of his seat, ready to stop Tony from accidentally strangling Baby Lewis in his worry. "Just for a checkup. So the doctors can make sure she's growing right, that she's hitting the right milestones, that kind of stuff. And, you know, in case she _does _start getting sick, there'll be someone to take her to."

Tony huffs a sigh of relief and slumps in his seat. "Oh. Oh, God, don't scare me like that. She's so…" Tony frowns down at Baby Lewis. "Tiny. And squishy. Squishy things are notoriously hard to keep squishy and not squished." Tony gives James another look in askance, the panic drawn back to hiding only behind his eyes. "This is why I do robots. Robots are harder to break, and you can just replace a part if it gets broken."

True, but no one's actually made a robot a _person _yet. Although James will not be surprised if it's a Stark that manages to make the first. "Doctor, Tony," he prods. Whatever kind of vehicle Tony's thoughts move in might go fast, but seems to tend to make a lot of wrong turns.

"Fine. Doctor. What, do I just call someone up and make an appointment?"

"Yes," James says. He thinks. "They'll explain the process. I'm sure there's plenty of paperwork, and you're probably going to have to figure out where the birth certificate is—Wait. You're sixteen."

Tony narrows his eyes. "Don't judge my life choices. I get plenty of shit about those from everyone else, I need _help _from you."

"I'm not. But if you're not eighteen, you're probably going to have to get a parent to sign for you. I hear doctors are picky about that kind of thing."

Tony laughs, sharp and unhappy. "Funny. Have you met my dad? Right, probably not, because he's drunk when he's home and yelling at his secretaries when he's not. I'm not calling him."

"Your mother, then."

"Probably hyped up on happy pills," Tony grunts, sliding out of his seat and boosting Baby Lewis up in his arms. "Forget it."

James stares at him incredulously. "What? No." He stands up, grabs his plate and sets it on the counter by the sink completely on automatic—his mother trained him well. "Can't you call your dad? I would hope he can spare _one _hour for his granddaughter."

"You underestimate his assholery, for one," Tony says darkly. "And two? There is no way in hell I'm crawling to _him _for help."

The poison in Tony's voice doesn't strike James nearly as deeply as the shed _idiocy _of his claim. "Are you fucking kidding me?" James says flatly. His mother would wash his mouth out with soap, but he thinks she would probably say the same thing.

Tony gives him a look with lingering distaste and mild confusion. "What? You haven't met him, you don't know—"

James slams his palms on the countertop and Tony jumps on the sound, staring at him wide-eyed. It's a satisfying reaction, because rage is suddenly boiling in James' blood. "I _know_," he says, surprising himself with his own venom, "that that little girl's life is _in your hands_, Stark. And let me make this perfectly clear: if you are incapable of setting your precious pride aside for her health and wellbeing, then she will be better off with someone else's family."

He spins around and stalks out of the kitchen, his thumping heart beating a war drum in his chest . He doesn't touch a hair on Tony's head, though—he won't. Because he remembers the last time he was this angry, and that was when his uncle cam home so drunk he put his daughter in the hospital. The screaming matches had ben epic, he remembers, and his uncle had walked out before charges could properly be filed.

James Rhodes has zero sympathy for fathers who risk their children.

"Where are you going?" Tony asks, and there's fear in his voice again as James aligns his backpack over his shoulder: doesn't want to be left alone. Doesn't know what to do.

But James has been telling him, and right now he needs _air_.

"I have lab time I need," James says coolly. "I'll see you tomorrow. I hope you can make the right decision."

—§§§—

He doesn't do his lab time, even though he should. James slams the door to his dorm a little too hard and his roommate, Michael, gives him an irritated look.

"What'd that door do to you?"

"Nothing," James says evenly, tosses his backpack toward the desk with a little more force than is really good for the books inside. He doesn't want to be careful right now, though, so he won't.

Michael is still staring at him. "Got in a fight?" he asks.

James rolls his eyes, toes off his shoes. "You see any bruises?"

"Would I, if they were there?" Michael grins at him. He's not careful with his words, and sometimes it annoys James, but right now he barely has the emotion to spare. "Where've you been, anyway? You didn't find a girl, did you?"

"No."

"You fought with her, didn't you."

James gives Michael a long look. Glasses, blond hair in disarray, tall and gangly and just awkward enough to make James occasionally want to gently sit him down in a chair before he makes those bruises on his elbows a permanent fixture. He knows next to nothing about girls, and James is not about to take it upon himself to teach him. "There's no girl," he sighs. "I don't know where you pull this stuff from."

"Then where've you been?" Michael repeats.

"Doesn't matter," James grunts, letting himself fall onto his bed. He lays there for a moment, staring ill-temperedly at the ceiling, before yanking the blanket up and around him, curling up. "I'm going to sleep."

"I'm not turning off the lights," Michael warns him.

James suppresses the urge to growl at him and instead pulls the blanket up to cover his face.

—§§§—

By the next morning, though, James has his own mind mostly sorted out, and figures that if he can at least help Tony through _this _decision, then it's going to be all or nothing.

It only takes walking through the door to realize it's not going to be that easy.

Tony's sitting on the floor, back slumped, head down. He doesn't look up when James walks in, and Baby Lewis, draped over Tony's lap, seems to have picked up on the depressive atmosphere in the room, whining unhappily and squirming for her father to pick her up. Tony's hands hover over her and she reaches out, but he doesn't pick her up. He barely touches her. His hands hover over her small stomach, brush against the tips of her tiny fingers, against the wispy black hairs on her head. Careful, cautious, and almost reluctant to touch.

He doesn't look like he's slept a wink.

"Tony?" James ventures. He lets his backpack drop and takes a few steps closer.

Tony's head turns, but only halfway, and he doesn't look up. "Where can I get the papers to set her up for adoption?" he asks hoarsely.

It's a decision, all right. But James's stomach is twisting at the tremor in Tony's voice, and he doesn't know if it would be right to take him at his word while he's in such a state. James approaches and crouches down; Tony dips his head to keep his face out of James' sight. "Are you okay?" James asks.

"I—" Tony's voice wavers. "I can't do this. I'm not." Tony lets one hand brush over Baby Lewis's ear and, with a bracing hesitation like he's about to jump out of a plane, he picks her up out of his lap and sets her on the carpet. Baby Lewis mewls her displeasure, but Tony only scoots back, away from her, folding his arms around his knees. "I can't do this," he whispers, and when he looks up at James, his eyes are rimmed red. "Stark men are shitty fathers. Trust me, I know."

James learns, in his history classes and military strategy classes, about these pesky little things called _unintended consequences. _And this—this wasn't what James was asking for. He doesn't want Tony in this crippling self doubt. He wants—

He wants Tony to understand.

"Hey," James says, and wraps and arm around Tony's shoulders. Even for sixteen, he's small, with scrawny shoulders, and he looks too young for that face. Too young for this child. But something's still telling him that Tony is strong enough for this. "You ever heard that saying, any man can be a father, but it takes a _real _man to be a dad?

Tony snorts. "Rings a bell," he says. "And, yeah, you know what, maybe it's like, the Stark gene, where we can father kids but raising 'em would be a fucking disaster—"

"Being a good dad isn't genetic," James interrupts him. "Alright? Just because you had a… lackluster childhood doesn't mean that she will. Just because your father didn't know how to be a dad doesn't mean you can't learn."

Tony looks up at him with big, brown eyes that are still shining from tears. "B-but, I'm… _me_. You know what they all say about me."

"Well, 'scuse you. My mother taught me not to trust in gossip," James says, and bumps his shoulder playfully.

Tony makes a sound caught between a chuckle and a whimper. Only half a point to James, then. "I'm, I'm not _sure_, how could I possibly be a good dad to—look at her. Just look at her."

They do. Baby Lewis looks grumpy, the kind of grumpy that puts the start of tears in her eyes with little whimpers around her pouting mouth.

"I do robots, not people," Tonys says. "Definitely not babies. I'm going to _break _her."

James sighs slowly. "Tony. I wasn't… I wasn't trying to tell you that you can't be her dad, okay? Not many people are _innate _good parents. You gotta learn. It's not about having the supposed _ability_, about your willingness to try, about—like I said, putting aside your pride. And I see the way you look at that baby. You love her, don't you?"

Tony nods slowly and wraps his arms even tighter around himself. "Of course. She's—she's tiny. You _have _to love something that cute. But—do you really think love's enough?"

James meets Tony's expectant gaze. "I think it's a damn good place to start."

—§§§—

"Doctor officially attained," Tony announces, pumping a fist victoriously into the air and then letting it flop down onto the floor by his side. "God, I think dad isn't going to speak to me for a year after this one." He lets out a huff of a laugh. "Not that that's a huge loss."

Neither of them try to sit up. The carpet is surprisingly comfortable, actually, but James supposes that's a rich people thing, or maybe a too-emotionally-exhausted-by-crying-babies thing. Also, James is still sort of questioning the sanity of the fact that, as it turns out, if you've got enough money then you don't really need a birth certificate. The doctor had wanted to write one up then, but without a first name that wasn't quite possible.

"For the record," Tony says, "you're still a saint. But not Saint James. I give up on James. Saint Rhodes? Saint _of _Roads? Rhode-rage."

"Give it up," James says tiredly.

"Help me out here, Rhodey. Wait. Wait wait wait, that's it, Rhodey. You are Rhodey. If you have any objections, state them now, but I wouldn't recommend it because I'm a hundred percent sure that I can come up with a nickname that you'll hate more."

At least he won't have to endure it _that _long, James rationalizes, and ignores that pesky part of his brain that's giving him the same vibes as his mother's skeptical look. It's not like he's going to be the Stark _nanny _or anything. He's got a future.

So that's why he doesn't rise to the bait. It's not like it's _endearing _or anything. What he says instead is, "I believe you."

—§§§—

"Darcy," Tony says suddenly.

"Pardon?" James says. He's tapping his pencil impatiently against his paper, because Elementary Linear Algebra is not _nearly _as simple as it sounds and Tony's brain is all _over _the place today. The random voicing of thoughts is making James suspect a serious coffee dependency and is _not _helping either of their concentration. Tony's current project looks more like a scrap heap than a robot.

Tony tosses his wrench onto the folding table they've set up in the living room so he can at least get _some _work done while Baby Lewis crawls around in the makeshift pen they created by moving couches. Tony leans over the back of the couch, just barely balanced enough to keep from toppling over, and scrutinizes the baby.

"You know that one book. Pride and Prejudice, or something? It just reminds me. Since I've—well, not _overcome_ pride, I'm well aware I've got an inflated ego, but there's room enough for something as small as she is. So it reminds me."

James deciphers that. "Have you even read the book?" he has to ask.

Tony snorts and lets himself topple over onto the couch cushions. "What, and you're trying to say you have? Anyway." He sits up and leans over to make silly faces at Baby Lewis. Sure enough, it draws her attention and she smiles hugely at him. Her little smile feels like the sun coming out.

It's possible that James is getting slightly too attached to a baby without a first name.

"I think she's a Darcy," Tony says.

Baby Lewis screeches happily. Then does it again, when she hears her own noise. Both Tony and James wince at the volume, but her joy is still somehow infectious.

"I don't know how," James says, "but I think you're right."

"Well, if the nanny says so," Tony grins, and he looks so _happy _that James almost smiles back.

Except.

"You know those things you can't possibly pay me enough for?" James says drily. "Being nanny is one of them."

Tony sighs, put upon. "Godfather, then. You can't say no to godfather."

"I'm pretty sure I can," James says, alarmed. The sudden enormity of the situation settles on his shoulders and he abruptly has _no idea_ how he got here, playing nanny while pretending not to for a teen dad and his ridiculously adorable child. Right—said teen dad showed up in his life panicked and with a baby on the line, and James just _has _to go be a sympathetic benefactor. _That _was it.

"Nope, nope, not hearing it," Tony sniffs, and scoops the baby up to plop her into James' lap. "Meet your goddaughter, Darcy Lewis Stark."

"Oh my God," James says, because there is a baby with a name in his lap and she isn't his. He doesn't _want _her to be his. But—

Getting attached to the baby _or _her father wasn't in the plans. "Where the _hell _are we supposed to go from here?" James asks faintly.

"Well," Tony shrugs, "she's got a name, doesn't she? How hard can the rest of it be?"


End file.
